


The Reeling

by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fishing, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1979985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/HaleHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If he didn’t have a fishing rod in hand, Stiles would be making choking motions. “How are we gonna catch fish when there’s no fish here!” Stiles hisses back, waving the rod around to display his agitation. Unfortunately, the lazy way in which the light, flexible stick sways makes it look more happy and stoned instead of bored and irritated. Stiles hates fishing, it’s official. So let it be written so let it be done and all that jazz!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Reeling

**Author's Note:**

> [Inspired from this lovely photoset](http://candypinkcocks.tumblr.com/post/92170151155/teen-wolf-au-derek-and-stiles-are-going-fishing)

It’s a beautiful summer day. The sunshine is the good kind of warm, there’s a faint breeze blowing through the lush trees and the shade that moves with the wind is cool. The large body of water in front of him looks like it’s the perfect temperature to jump into. There’s even a family of ducks far over on the other side that’s minding it’s own business and Stiles is  _so fucking_   _ **bored**._  
  


The company isn’t too great either. “We should go to the other side of the lake.” Stiles declares, startling a dragonfly that’s been flitting around him. He squints at the lush greenery on the other side and wonders if there’s a spot there where he can kick back against a tree and catch a nap while waiting for a damned fish to take the stupid bait. “There’s no fish here.” He continues, tugging lightly on his rod before turning to look at Derek to check his reaction.  
  


Derek looks peaceful where he stands, like he’s the Yoda of fishing. “No. This is a good spot.” And he’s  _almost_ got the Yoda speak down too. By which he means not at all, Stiles snarks to himself before he glances up distrustfully at the sun shining down at them.  
  


A good spot? Ha. Right, by what standards? “For  _tanning_  maybe.” He grumbles, wondering why he’d forgotten to charge his phone last night. And why oh  _why_ had he forgotten to get his music player back from Scott? This whole  _ordeal_  would be a  _lot_ easier to deal with if he has something to focus on. Besides the fishing part.  
  


So Stiles fidgets, pulls on his fishing rod, fiddles with the reel, kicks a few pebbles into the lake, sighs several times, attempts to initiate conversations with the quiet werewolf (gets shut down every time within 2 sentences, a new record!) before he gives up. For like a minute. It’s a pattern. Shut up, he’s _bored_!  
  


From the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Derek fiddling with his reel. “Fishing is supposed to be quiet.” He doesn’t even  _have_ to say that the whole point of this exercise is supposed to teach Stiles patience or something. Stiles hadn’t really paid a lot of attention to what Derek had been saying…. He’d been too busy rolling his eyes. Don’t okay? Just  _don’t_.  
  


It’s a combination of the great weather, a lack of caffeine, having been standing in one place for 30 minutes (because great forward thinker that Derek is, he’d not brought anything to actually  _sit on_  while they’d be fishing!) and being  _bored_ , Stiles can feel sarcasm and sass pouring out of his pores. So he mock whispers back, “Fishing is supposed to involve catching fish!”  
  


Derek checks the line, eyes still on the bobbing sinker and cranks the reel slightly. “And how are we going to catch fish if you can’t shut up for longer than 10 minutes?” He asks in a low conversational voice, like he’s talking about the bird watching them curiously from the tree instead of casually insulting Stiles.   
  


If he didn’t have a fishing rod in hand, Stiles would be making choking motions. “ _How_ are we gonna catch fish when  _there’s no fish here_!” Stiles hisses back, waving the rod around to display his agitation. Unfortunately, the lazy way in which the light, flexible stick sways makes it look more happy and stoned instead of bored and irritated. Stiles  _hates_ fishing, it’s official. So let it be written so let it be done and all that jazz!  
  


The universe has one hell of a weird sense of humor, Stiles knows this. He just doesn’t get why he tends to forget this all the time. Because as soon he’s done, he gets jerked forward because “Whoa!” Stiles cries out, glasses going askew on his eyes. “I think I got a bite!”   
  


He can’t help but flail slightly in place as he gives Derek a helpless, wide eyed look. “What the hell do I do?!?!?” The werewolf is already moving to stand behind him, arms coming around Stiles to grab the fishing rod. “Is this really necessary?” Stiles can’t help but squeak because hey hey, he didn’t sign up for this!  
  


Derek does something so that the taut line goes slack, the reel whirring noisily. It’s easy enough to see that the stretched out line is moving away from them instead of towards them. “Just let it go for a while.” Derek comments right into Stiles’ ear, making the teenager jump and bump back into Derek’s hips. He’s got an ‘eep’ right on the tip of his tongue that Stiles  _just_ manages to swallow down. “You don’t want the fish to fight you. You’ve got to coax it towards you.”  
  


"By letting it go?" Stiles asks in a (thank sweet merciful fish providing God!) steady voice. "Wouldn’t it make more sense if I started reeling it  _in_?”  
  


The whirring noise of the reel begins to slow down, going from frantic to lazy as the line begins to sway left and right. “If you do that then the line might snap.” Derek’s nod makes his scruffy chin rub against Stiles’ cheek and Stiles will  _swear this until the day he fucking **dies**_ that he  _doesn’t_  squeak at the sensation. “It’s better to let them tire themselves out and then…”  ****  
  
  


Derek’s hand presses on top of his, rough fingers curling over the handle before they begin to slowly crank it. “Nice and easy.” Derek guides, eyes locked on the water. It’s easy to tell that the fish is zig zagging its way towards them. “You don’t want to go too fast and spook it. That’s it…”  
  


With Derek providing him with a steady stream of instructions, Stiles is well on his way to catching his first fish. That’s the reason why he’s holding his breath and not because he’s got 200 pounds of hot werewolf plastered against his back that’s causing him to sweat like mad. It seems to take forever to get the fish close enough to shore that Derek  _finally_ pulls away to grab the net and wade into the shallow water.  
  


Stiles flaps his shirt back, letting cool air pass over his sweaty skin as he  _prays_ that Derek has taken his elevated heart beat and excessive sweating as excitement instead of anything else. “Got it.” Derek exclaims, one hand wrapped tight around the line as he pulls the wriggling fish out of the net.   
  


The way Derek’s eyebrow rises in combination with his amused smirk does things to Stiles. Like makes his belly flop, his heart whine and his brain declare both of them as lovestruck nincompoops. “Still want to go to the other side of the lake?” Derek inquires, splashing back up to dry ground.  
  


Just to be contrary, Stiles grumbles, “ _Yes_! Because there’s too much sun here and I’m going to burn! I bet my face is red already!” It’s probably because he’s blushing but what Derek doesn’t know won’t hurt him.  
  


He continues to gripe about the sun and his sensitive skin as Derek walks away to do… something with the fish while Stiles let his nerves out in the form of focused loud babbling. It’s a stress release  _and_ it lets him explain about skin cancer which is better than being quiet and bored!  
  


Stiles yelps when something hits the back of his head. He rubs the aching spot, turning around to glare at Derek, who is wiping his hands clean on a towel. Oh sure, the man brings a towel but he can’t bring a stupid folding seat? “Put that on and stop complaining.” Derek says, walking back towards him.   
  


That? Stiles looks down at his feet. Ah, sun screen. “You brought sunscreen, a towel, two boxes of fishing lures but you couldn’t remember to bring a  _chair_ or something?” Stiles complains loudly, snapping the top of the bottle open. He’s poured a good dollop of the cream into his hand when Derek grabs hold of his wrist and smacks Stiles’ hand into his face.  
  


The teenager yelps, squirming to get free as his own hand is scrubbed over his cheeks. “You’re welcome.” Derek offers in a smug tone.   
  


"I hate you so much." Stiles hisses, rubbing some of the creamy liquid off his eyelids so that he can glare at Derek. The werewolf looks amused, leaning down to grab his fishing rod. Aha! A chance!  
  


Stiles doesn’t stop to think about it and simply rushes in. One good shove later, Stiles is bent double over his elbows, laughing to the point of tears as Derek glares up at him from the water. “Take that!” Stiles crows between one gasp of air and the other. “That’ll teach you.”  
  
  


"Oh yeah?" Derek growls, standing up with a sudden splash. Stiles doesn’t even get the chance to blink as the werewolf runs up, grabs him and dumps his ass into the cold water.   
  


Yelping at the sudden shock of cold water, Stiles flounders momentarily before glaring up at Derek’s face. “Oh it is on, fur butt!” Stiles growls, tossing his glasses away on the ground before he wraps both hands around Derek’s legs and pulls him down  _hard_.  
  


20 minutes later, they’re both soaked all the way down to their underwear and have scared all the fish away with the splashing, yelling and general horsing around. “I think we scared all the fish away.” Stiles wheezes, accepting Derek’s hand as he stands up.  
  


The werewolf looks at the water and shrugs, not bothered by the prospect. “At least we caught one.” Derek replies, taking a step back before he grabs the hem of his green t-shirt and whips it off like he’s in a Calvin Klein ad. Stiles dearly wishes he had a camera on hand. If only to capture those water drops that are making their way down Derek’s six pack in a lazy-  
  


Stiles stumbles back a step when Derek’s hands grab hold of his t-shirt and says, “You should take yours off too. You might catch a cold.” He’s ready to insist that ahahaha  _no_ , he’s not taking his shirt off thank you  _very_ much! But Derek’s Derek and it takes him exactly 5 seconds and a whole bunch of his werewolf strength to man handle Stiles out of his shirt.  
  


"I’m going to get the worst sunburn  _ever_.” Stiles moans pitifully, crossing his arms over his chest  _not_ because he’s feeling self concious but because he’s feeling a little nippy. As  _if_ Stiles would feel that way when he’s surrounded by stupidly attractive people with bodies that would make an Abercrombie and Fitch model jealous, psh.   
  


Okay fine, he feels way too pale, way too lean and  _way_ too not gorgeous when Derek’s standing there all shirtless and wet and tanned. It’s distracting in all the ways Stiles doesn’t want to be distracted right now. “That’s what the sunscreen is for.” Derek retorts, leaning down to grab the bottle. The way that the older man kneels down shows off his thighs in a way that makes Stiles’ eyes shoot up at the sky and begin to recite the periodic table inside his head.   
  


He gets lost between potassium and calcium, comes close to forgetting his  _name_ because Derek flips the top open and asks, “I can do your back for you.” Stiles’ brain can’t help but leer and whisper, ‘ _Oh you can do my back ail night long._ ' and has he  _mentioned_ how much he  _hates_ himself right now?  
  


After clearing his throat, Stiles presents his back to Derek and says, in a voice that doesn’t break, “Yeah, thanks. ‘ppreciate it.” Stiles starts all over again with the periodic table and doesn’t even make it past  _oxygen_. Derek’s hands sweep up and down his back in a repetitive,  _bewitching_ pattern that leaves Stiles feeling boneless.  
  
  


He groans his appreciation when firm fingers dig into a stubborn knot around his left shoulder blade. “Right there. Man, you’re good at this.” Derek gives him a non-committal hum, wet palms sliding down. The way Derek’s thumbs rub and stroke against his lower back ought to be  _criminal_ _._  
  


It takes less than a three minutes for Derek to finish and for Stiles to turn into a 140 odd pounds of quivering, semi-aroused flesh. He almost whines when Derek’s hands leave his back and his body actually leans back for more before Stiles can stop himself. Stiles is certain that his face is beet red now and that there’s no way that Derek has missed all the obvious signs.  
  


Stiles is ready to be teased, to be rejected, to be gently let down and any other bad scenario that he’s come up with in the past 30 seconds. “Mind doing my back too?” Derek asks coolly, holding the bottle out.  
  


Well.   
  


Okay then.  
  


Stiles can roll with this.   
  


With an eager nod, Stiles puts way too much sunscreen on his hands and gets his hands all over Derek’s back. It’s a nice back, you can’t blame him for wanting to touch it. And by touching he means getting thoroughly acquainted with  _all those rippling_  muscles. He may or may not have sighed happily at that.  
  


He’s telling himself that it would be wrong to start stroking the triskele pattern when a thought occurs to Stiles. “Since when do werewolves need sunscreen?” Stiles asks dubiously, trying to learn over to catch Derek’s eye. Who is resolutely staring out at the lake. What is Derek even looking at? There’s not even a- __  
  
  


Oh.  
  


_Oooooh_.  
  


Well then.  
  


Stiles grins to himself and lets himself squeeze Derek’s shoulders as he says, “Oh.”  
  


"Shut up." Derek grumbles with pink ears.

**Author's Note:**

> I AM GRAVELY DISTRESSED THAT I COULDN'T WORK OUT A ‘gone fishing’ JOKE INTO THIS FIC! GRAVELY YOU HEAR!


End file.
